


These Violent Delights Will Have Violent Ends

by wordswhatareinmybrain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswhatareinmybrain/pseuds/wordswhatareinmybrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Not even in my darkest moments before did I even consider the possibility of doing this. But then I suppose that is the whole point. That was before. This is after." Post-Reichenbach. John isn't coping with Sherlock's death and becomes desperate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Violent Delights Will Have Violent Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Uploaded this originally on fanfiction.net, but now I've got an account I'm uploading this here. I expect people have done things like it, but I wanted to have a go.  
> Contains triggers for self-harm and suicide.

I never thought it would end like this. Not so...hopelessly, not so colourless. But then my life has been devoid of colour for a long while now. The only colours are grey and red. Blood red. Not even in my darkest moments before did I even consider the possibility of doing this. But then I suppose that is the whole point. That was before.

This is after.

Life with him was so vibrant. My world, previously monotone, exploded into glorious technicolour. Everything was just so much more vivid, so much more alive. It was almost surreal, the colours were so bright, violently so. Life with him was certainly violent – running, fighting, loving every second. We’d constantly be doing. Whether it was examining another mutilated corpse for Lestrade, pissing off Mycroft or Anderson, or just me rushing after his billowing coat tails – there was always something. That is why the emptiness is so much worse now. Because I have known what it is like to have everything. And to be without that everything is more than I can bear.

I remember one time we had just got back from a case. It had ended in the usual climactic, dramatic fashion, with a chase through alleyways and side streets. We arrived back at the flat, out of breath, and, having staggered inside, leant against in the wall in the darkness, the only noise the sound of our breathing. We stayed like that for some time, content just to know that the other was there, not needing light. Eventually, our breathing returned to normal. I felt him shift next to me, turning to me, hearing the whisper of clothing as he moved. An intake of breath, as if about to speak - and then the light snapped on. Mrs Hudson bustled in, rabbiting on about nothing. The spell was broken.  
Just after it all ended, I liked to remember that time. But after a while, it became agony. For after losing myself in the bliss of remembering the feel of him just being alive, I would have to return to reality.

And there would only be the sound of one person’s breath.

Whenever I dream, it is always of him. Of his impossible perfection, his brilliance. He was like a source of light, his genius radiating from him. No – radiating isn’t quite the right word; he was so much more forceful than that. He was more like a firework, or a flare. Burning so violently, so brightly – but then extinguished all too soon.

  
The dreams start off benign enough – just him and I, back in 221B, doing what we always did: him being impossibly clever, those eyes lighting up when he can show off to me some more, prove his genius still further. I smile indulgently at him. It is the only time I ever truly smile anymore.

  
But then the dream curdles. Suddenly he’ll stop. He’ll just...stop. The smile freezes and fades. The eyes widen, never leaving my face. And then he falls. Topples over backwards. For we are no longer safe in 221B. We are back on the rooftop. I dart forwards, trying to catch him, fingers frantically snatching at thin air – but I never reach him. He is already gone.

  
The sound is the worst. The awful rushing of air as he falls and then the dull thud he makes as he hits the ground, amplified a thousand times over. I try to scream, but am choked. Because my throat is filled with blood. Blood is everywhere. It streaks his face, marring his perfection, and pools across the pavement. And I am drowning in it. Drowning in his blood. It blocks my throat, my nose, my eyes. I try to rub it off, but my hands are dripping with it. Bright, red, sticky, hot, blood, blood, blood, blood.

  
It is then that I wake up, drenched in sweat, screaming. But nobody hears. I am alone, the only sound the dull thud still ringing in my ears, echoing through the empty flat.

  
Sometimes, it’s me that pushes him. Then sleep has gone for good and the rest of the night is spent in the shower, sobbing, washing the blood from my hands, from my body. The blood that is always there. The blood that, no matter how hard I scrub, cannot be washed off.

  
I know it’s my fault. I should have stopped him from jumping. I just didn’t try hard enough. So the blood will never go. His blood, coating my skin.

  
Crimson is the only colour in my life – red, raw, blistered, swollen, painful.

 

So I give up.

 

I can’t do this anymore.

 

My hand is steady as I pick up the razor. It is all so simple. It will be over in a few minutes. The emptiness will be gone. My hands will finally become clean – I will rinse his blood with mine.

This is the coward’s way out, I know that. But I can’t cope. My life is empty. The only things left are pain, guilt and blood. So much blood. It seems fitting to end it in blood and pain, too – a sort of purging. I will watch the life seep out of me, as it poured out of him, the end as violent as the rest of the story. His had to end dramatically, violently – fitting with how he lived his life. Mine will end less dramatically. No-one watching. No-one knowing.

My eyes drift shut. I allow myself to remember him, one last time. I picture the ruffled hair, the half-smiling lips and the vibrant blue eyes – so alive.

The blade slits flesh.

Blood. Blood everywhere.

I smile rapturously, his name a sigh on my lips.

“Sher...lock.”

I think I see his face looming over mine, eyes still as alive as ever, impossibly so. How can this image be so alive when he is so dead? But there is no time for doubt, no time for thinking. This hallucination is a happy one, for it means I can see him.

Ecstasy. He will be there. On the other side. I am going to him. So it does not feel at all strange when I raise one blood-soaked hand and touch his face. He feels so real. I am going to him.

Blood. Blood everywhere.

But the red is tinged with black now.

The darkness sets in: apart from two bright blue points. I think I hear my name, but I am too far gone to be sure. Besides, I do not care. I will be with him.

Blood.

And then the dark extinguishes everything, even the blue.


End file.
